


Breathe in two countries

by randomalia (spilinski)



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 14:37:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4225641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spilinski/pseuds/randomalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're killing time between galaxies when Rodney, seemingly busy with his work, says, "So, apparently Dave thinks I'm your boyfriend," just like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe in two countries

**Author's Note:**

> Sheppard/McKay, set during the nebulous amount of time between 4x15 (Outcast) and 4x17 (Midway). Title from Naomi Shihab Nye's poem Two Countries.

The second time John gets called back to Earth for personal reasons, there's no emergency keeping Rodney away. Everyone who happens to be standing in the gateroom learns this when Rodney rushes in, just as the dialing sequence is running through, with two laptop bags and a blue tie trailing along the ground like an uncurled vein.

"Oh, good, you're here," he pants. "Zelenka thought one of the generators was giving out some strange readings -- over-reacting again; the perils of scientific mediocrity -- anyway, that's why I'm somewhat late, though obviously not _late_ ," he breaks off to breathe and gesture indistinctly at the gate.

"McKay," John says. This is what he always says when he's not really sure what's going on, and it serves him well.

"Hmm?" is Rodney's reply. Then he leans a little closer and gives John a worried look. "Are you, you know - Sam didn't say who it was this time and I didn't have time to check your file."

"Check my file?" John repeats. "You mean my _private_ file, that you're never supposed to set eyes on?"

"Yes, well, clearly I _have_ set eyes on it, many times, so it's no good acting scandalised now, Colonel."

John presses his lips together and breathes slowly. "There's no need to come with me, Rodney. There's no problem. It's fine."

"You always say that," Rodney rolls his eyes, stuffing the tie back into one of the laptop bags and walking forward through the shimmering water.

*

There isn't a problem, and it _is_ fine. At least, that's what John thought, but he's beginning to reassess his position by the time the cab drops them off and John's forced to make introductions: Dave and his fiancé, Maggie; John and his "colleague, Doctor Rodney McKay."

"Civilian contractor, are you?" Dave asks, giving Rodney's hand a brief shake.

"That's one way of putting it," Rodney replies, and John wishes desperately for something to explode, somewhere, anywhere.

He settles for keeping his mouth shut and trudges up the pointlessly-grand staircase to "the guest suite" where, it becomes clear, Dave expects John and Rodney to stay. Together.

"Listen," John begins. And really, he's not bothered that his brother thinks he's gay, or even that McKay is assumed to be his -- his _companion_ for the wedding. Dave can get screwed if he thinks John's going to react to that whole thing. But there's only one bed in that guest room, and one shower, and one bath, and one ceiling to sleep under, and it strikes John that it's more than a little inappropriate. He's McKay's commanding officer, after all. They have boundaries to maintain, a working relationship that a lot of people depend upon.

He turns back to Dave, who is waiting in the doorway looking more relaxed than a groom-to-be ever should. "So, my old room," John says quietly. "Is it -- I think maybe you got the wrong impression here --"

Dave puts a very uncomfortable hand on John's shoulder, their palm and collarbone slotting together silently. "We already put Maggie's sister in there," he says and attempts a smile. "It's this or the stables."

John is wondering just how much straw would make a comfortable bed when Rodney comes back from inspecting the ensuite. His eyes flit between them rapidly, storing up who-knows-what impressions. Then he waves a bottle of shampoo at Dave.

"Did you realise this has bergamot in it? Because unless you're trying to _kill_ one of your guests -- in all likelihood your most distinguished guest -- I suggest you remove all such products from my vicinity immediately. That includes that fruity-smelling thing on the bench in there, what is that, some kind of tropical citrus orgy plant?"

Dave stares at Rodney for a moment, then at John. "So, what happened to that Ronon guy?"

*

"You could have told me you were coming home for a wedding."

"I told you there wasn't a problem," John grits out.

"Which, need I remind you, are the exact same words you used two weeks ago when you were being brainwashed by that _cult_ of _extremely attractive women_."

"We were just," John scratches his ear, "getting to know each other, Rodney."

"They wanted you to father the next generation of their society!"

"Okay, yeah." Rodney's starting to sound a little worked-up, so John goes slowly. "They were getting a little ahead of themselves, but it wasn't anything I couldn't handle. Like I said: not a problem."

Rodney gives him a baleful look. And, "Pass me the other pillowcase, would you? I refuse to sleep in a bed with military corners."

The bed doesn't have military corners because someone had made it up before they arrived. There's even perfectly-plumped pillows, but apparently Rodney brings his own pillowcase with him when he gets the chance to pack. John hadn't known that.

"Suit yourself, McKay," he says easily. "I'm crashing on the floor."

"What? Why?"

That pulls John up short. "Because, Rodney, there's only one bed."

"So?"

"And two of us?"

For some reason, Rodney looks insulted. "Fine. But if you sleep on the floor then I'm going to spend the entire night wondering whether or not I'm feeling guilty about taking the bed and whether you're developing acute onset hypothermia, and I have a wedding to attend tomorrow, so I really think you should just sleep in the damn bed. It's big enough to fit Ronon three times over, so I don't think your, your manly, macho image has anything to worry about."

John watches him give up on trying to wrestle with the pillowcase, his shoulders sinking tiredly.

"Fine," he says; it comes out more gentle than he wanted. He covers his embarrassment by setting his watch on the bedside table and rolling onto the bed, hands on his belly, eyes on the ceiling, indistinct and pale. When the bed shifts under Rodney's weight and warmth he sinks into sleep.

*

"Do you know what this means?" Rodney says to him the next morning, weirdly bright-eyed and coherent. They haven't even gone down for breakfast yet.

"What what means?" John asks warily, adjusting his dress shirt for the eleventh time.

"The wedding," Rodney replies, fishing -- of course -- a powerbar from out of a bag and biting it with enthusiasm. "Instead of a funeral. It _means_ ," he continues, just as John opens his mouth, "that we can stay an extra night and also, wedding feast leftovers. We won't even have to cook!"

"I didn't come here for a vacation, Rodney."

"Please. If I wanted a holiday I would have booked us in at a hotel where we could watch large-screen tv in bed."

John takes a few steps back involuntarily, but Rodney doesn't notice. He's still talking, something about salmon and --

"I have to," John says, turning for the door, and the staircase below has never seemed so long, so treacherous, his legs so ungainly.

*

Outside, one of the side lawns is set up for the ceremony, lush green covered in white: white marquee, white chairs, white flowers. Ribbons flutter like flags in the breeze.

John's own wedding seems like kind of a blur now, something John files under _before_ and doesn't think about much. Nancy looked happy, he remembers that. John's father had looked, if not happy, then something approaching it. Relieved, maybe.

When John and Nancy met it was during the second stretch of not talking to his family and at the time he felt a kind of freedom: he could do what he wanted now. He could make himself a life.

Nancy was smart and capable, and John had seen her be kind. She looked right at him when he talked. They didn't like the same music or the same houses or the even the same kinds of food, but to John that made it seem like he was making the right choice. With Nancy he'd learn how to be different.

*

John is struck by a weird sense of deja-vu when the crowd starts to gather. There's a neatly-laden buffet table and people he's never met are milling around, looking over-dressed and awkward, champagne flutes resting protectively in their hands.

He's letting Rodney's happily-scathing social commentary wash over him, oddly calming, when he sees someone approach from their two o'clock.

"I did tell you about Nancy, didn't I?" he says quickly, and, okay, he needs to find a better way to do that.

"Who's Nancy? Oh, my god, do you have a hidden sister as well?"

"More like an ex-wife."

Rodney stares. He's still staring when Nancy reaches them, swathed in green and looking proud and hale in the afternoon light.

"Nancy," John says determinedly, "It's good to see you. This is," he hesitates, "Rodney."

Rodney's eyes narrow. " _Doctor_ Rodney McKay," he corrects and John drops his eyes to the ground.

"It's nice to meet you, Doctor," Nancy says, reaching out a hand.

"Yes, well, this is a new thing for both of us," Rodney replies belligerently.

"I suppose it is. Have you known John long?"

"Apparently not. You?"

"Oh," Nancy cuts a glance in John's direction. "We go way back," she smiles. "Though we don't cross paths very often."

"Hmm. I understand you were married to him at one point."

"That's right," Nancy replies, a little bemused.

"How interesting. Any children?"

"McKay," John interrupts.

"What? It's a valid question. How else am I supposed to find out these things?"

"Maybe you should stick to reading personal files," John snaps.

"Oh, please. If you're the one providing the information it's not likely to be accurate, is it?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Rodney's chin goes up. "If I have to explain it to you, Colonel, you're clearly even less intelligent than I thought. If you'll excuse me," he says in the direction of Nancy, "I'm going to get something to eat."

"He doesn't seem very happy," she observes carefully as Rodney retreats.

John shakes his head. "That's just Rodney," he lies. "You get used to it."

"So what happened to Ronon?"

"Nothing happened." It was probably a good thing McKay wasn't hearing this. It was mocking material for weeks, how everyone assumed Ronon -- Ronon! -- was his... something.

Nancy just gives a him a little nod of understanding, somehow making it worse.

"We weren't. Look, Rodney and I..." John trails off, not knowing where to go with that.

"John," Nancy says gently. "You don't have to explain. Not anymore. We did all that, remember?" She crosses her arms, a light in her eyes. "He's, um. He seems like a very bright man."

Some kind of warmth flares in John's chest, chased by a slick feeling of guilt: Nancy had never deserved the little he gave her.

"Just don't tell _him_ that," he says.

*

They don't really speak much, the rest of the day. John finds Rodney at the buffet table and they pick at the food together, they slouch next to each other in their chairs during the ceremony, and when Dave and Maggie have disappeared down the driveway in a gleaming black car, they climb the stairs and sit in the guest room together.

John's too tired to take off his shoes. Rodney seems to be staring into his computer screen without doing anything. The silent treatment they're both giving out is starting to claw at John's stomach.

"It's just not important anymore," he finally says, and Rodney looks up at him blearily.

"It was something I did in the past," John clarifies. He doesn't want to say that Nancy isn't important, or that it wasn't a big thing, being with her, marrying her, the way they broke apart. It turned everything upside down; it was astonishing to John to go through all that only to find himself back at the beginning again. But even being back here, in this house, with Nancy and Dave and their old family photos on the walls, it still feels light years away. He doesn't live here anymore.

He looks at Rodney, sitting on the wide, white bed and feels oddly caught between two realities.

If Rodney were to sit on John's bed, at home, in Atlantis -- that would be different. That wouldn't be so strange.

"Your next-of-kin," Rodney says eventually. "On your records it's listed as your brother."

"Look," John says slowly. "I didn't not tell you. It just didn't come up before now."

"I find it hard to believe that your previous experience of marriage didn't occur to you when I was going to propose to Katie," Rodney says.

John presses his lips together, bends down to start tugging at his laces.

"I'm pretty sure you know everything about me," Rodney says then, sounding oddly pleading. "I mean, you know about my incomparable intellect, of course, not to mention my extraordinary innate ability with alien technology --"

"Is this going somewhere?" John asks.

"Look, what I'm saying is, you know my entire history with women. From that disastrous thing with April Bingham at the athletics carnival to, to Katie. You just, you know everything about me."

A flicker of memory passes at the edge of John's vision, a dream that keeps coming back to him when he's especially tired. A sense of someone. Strong hands, bare thighs, a perfect weight against him.

"Don't think that's possible, Rodney," he says lightly.

He shucks his jacket and skins out of his suit pants, and settles himself along the edge of the mattress. "Gonna get some shut-eye," he says. He watches clouds chase each other across the dark sky for a while, and doesn't notice when he falls asleep.

*

Right on schedule they leave early the following morning, while the sky's still grey, and soon enough they're deep underground at the SGC, back where people recognise them by uniform and rank. Briefly it seems comfortable, at least familiar, but for John that feeling is limned with the knowledge that no one here will mistake he and Rodney for whatever it is John's family sees on the outside.

Here they're colleagues, and if anyone got the wrong idea about them, the most they would think -- marvel over, laugh at -- is _friends_.

By the time the gate opens to the midway station, John's body is thrumming with flight: out, out, out.

*

They're killing time between galaxies when Rodney, seemingly busy with his work, says, "So, apparently Dave thinks I'm your boyfriend," just like that.

The book John's holding slips in his hands, the pages get crumpled.

Rodney looks at him curiously, his shoulders unfolding tentatively like an opening hand.

"I would have thought you'd have more of a problem with that."

John shrugs lopsidedly, his heart banging hard against his ribs.

"In case you hadn't noticed, McKay," he drawls, "my family and I don't see eye to eye on a lot of things."

Rodney reacts as if he's seen something, or heard something that John isn't aware of, like he's looking right into John's brain. He appears momentarily confused, unconvinced.

John smooths out the pages of his book. He tries to remember where he was reading before.

The quarantine clock is counting down on the wall, utterly silent.

*

John was sixteen when it started to dawn on him. Things had been fractious at home for years before that, and there was always the prospect that John wasn't going to want the same things his father wanted for him. But when he was sixteen, when he was in high school, he'd turned around one day and looked at his friend, and it wasn't long after that he began to realise that being different wasn't just some _problem_ his dad would get mad about, but something bigger.

The image of that moment stayed in his head for years: the sun-dried grass at the edge of the schoolyard, the distant city, a boy drenched in light.

A few years later, when John had thrown the fact of his difference into an argument like a weapon, it was seen as just one more attempt to upset the family. His father seemed to think John chose this just to be a bit more rebellious, just to make waves, like anyone chose to like having a dick in their mouth. He'd made the mistake of telling his dad it just came naturally to him, must be something in his genes, and there had been a lot more yelling, a lot worse after that.

 _One day you're going to grow up and be ashamed_ , his dad had said. _You're going to be sick, you're gonna be disgusted, just like I'm disgusted._

And then he said, _Your mother would --_

He never finished the sentence, because he'd taken a look at John's face and whatever he saw made him lurch to a halt. John remembers standing there, shaking, the whole room caught on the knife-edge. It had been May: outside the birds singing had almost filled the sudden silence.

John had left, and hadn't gone back until he was a captain of the USAF, thinking maybe enough time had passed, maybe a captain was good enough, maybe they'd all gotten used to the distance and found they didn't like it as much as being able to look at each other's faces. He'd worn his dress blues and all the way along the drive the shadows of horses stretched over the windows of the car, the birch trees unmoving in the still spring air.

There weren't any insults that time. Dave was there, hovering, taking care of things in a way that rubbed John's face in his responsibility, and in the end there was just a lot of disapproval, a lot of silence pressing down on them like dust and stone.

*

It's just coming into evening in Atlantis, when they step through the gate. Carter welcomes them back with a pile of reports and a cheeky smile.

"How was the wedding?" she asks.

"Not bad," John says.

"The food was adequate," adds Rodney, making faces at the data tablet he's just snatched out of Chuck's hands.

"Sounds great," Carter says. "And I hate to press you straight back into work but Rodney, Dr Zelenka wants to see you in the labs and John, I'm about to start a debrief with SGA-3, if you're interested in sitting in. They've been getting some interesting data from P3X-867."

"What? Why aren't I invited?" Rodney asks, shoving the tablet back at a long-suffering Chuck.

"Strategic data, McKay, not scientific."

"Oh, of course. It's not like I'm ever called upon to provide strategic, life-saving plans."

"I'm sure John will update you on anything important," Carter replies, and, man, John wishes she hadn't said that.

Rodney just gives them a sour expression and barks at some technicians to get out of his way; and if he looks back before he leaves the control room, John isn't there to see it.

*

When he met Rodney, John felt settled for the first time in long years: No matter how many research stations were built, no matter how many people he flew there and back, humans were always out of place in Antarctica. No one belonged to the white mountains and stark ice fields, and the cold forced bodies into anonymity. People were alone here. And John could still fly, and over the years he'd been pared back to just that: a want of flying, and so it was enough.

He remembers going down a narrow tunnel, a metal cage clanking under his weight.

Elizabeth was there, and then Rodney. In that place, Rodney was completely unknown, a stranger, stopping in front of him and saying, _Think about where we are in the universe._ Translucent maps of stars and planets began shimmering over his head, a silent circulatory system, and below them John was necessary, John was _perfect_ , Rodney said; _do you know what this means?_

John didn't know. Still doesn't.

*

It's past John's usual bedtime when his door chimes and he finds Rodney standing on the other side.

"You're awake," Rodney says.

"Somebody just rang my doorbell," John replies sarcastically.

"Right. I thought you might be -- nevermind."

It feels like it's been a long day, long couple of days, so John backs up and lets Rodney into his room, goes to the far side of the bed and kicks a t-shirt under the bed. He tries picking up his water bottle but he can't seem to get a proper grip on it; settles for empty hands at his sides instead.

Rodney is watching all this; his eyes are distractingly blue. John feels caught, useless, naked.

"I just," Rodney says, lifting a hand to sketch the thoughts in his head, "I was thinking about what you said. On the midway station? And, as I think you know, I haven't exactly had the best relations with my family either."

"Rodney."

"You see, my parents expected us, Jeannie and I, to achieve great things," Rodney forges ahead. "And, and if they were alive today, they would be saying, why aren't you married, why don't you have a house and two-point-three dogs, or, you know -- the point is, Jeannie says that nothing we would ever do would be good enough for them. And so when she dropped out of grad school, she decided to stop judging herself by their standards."

Going by Rodney's expression he's thinking about Jeannie's husband and how Jeannie doesn't publish anymore and --

"And if you're happy," he says then. "If you're happy, then it shouldn't matter. That should be good enough for, for anyone."

In the meagre light of John's quarters Rodney looks embarrassed and defensive and daring all at once. His hands are clutching at each other, pressing together, palm against palm.

"Thanks," John manages, roughly.

"Oh. No problem."

They look at each other across John's narrow, rumpled bed.

"Right. Well, I'm going to get something to eat," Rodney hooks a thumb over his shoulder. "If you're hungry?"

"Yeah," John says and comes around the bed to fall in alongside him. "Yeah, I guess I'm hungry."

And maybe John has stepped too close, or maybe Rodney has, but for some reason their hands brush as the door slides open, knuckles and muscle and warm skin, momentarily the same as they meet and part.


End file.
